Chances
by x.Rynnfox.x
Summary: All Hamlet wanted was to rest, but it seemed the afterlife had other ideas. Slash, Horatio/Hamlet. Warning: Dark Themes
1. A Belated Peace

Chances

Chapter One- A Belated Peace

He could feel the darkness swirl around him, that calming breeze that seemed to skitter over his soul. He was done. God knows, for all he'd done he'd deserved it. His goals sadly met and now it was time to rest.

Dreams, that is what Hamlet wished for now, let him dream first then he would welcome his awaiting purgatory. For confession was far from his mind when the poison ripped through his veins, leaving a path of fire and the weight of a heart that was on its last legs, heaving, slowing. No, his blurry mind was clutching at the vision of a tear stained face that hovered sorrowfully above his own. A blotchy image, crudely plastered together, but none the less his sole focus. "No, Horatio, give me the cup, if you love me, you'll let me have it." He wildly wrenched the goblet from Horatio's shaking hands, "please" a gasp "tell the world the truth about me, let my reputation not remained damaged. Stay, tell them my story". He heard a strangled cry mere inches from his nose.

Cannon fire blasted from the outside grounds and Hamlet could do little more than huff out a question, "what warlike noises are these...?" a garbled murmur was the only reply, words that took an age for his brain to riddle out. "Horatio..." Hamlet's leaden fingers (when did they get so heavy?) traced the jaw line of the tearful scholar above him, "I'm dying Horatio; I will not live to hear the news from England. For...tinbras, he will win the Danish crown, tell him what's happened here. O-oh the rest is silence." The remnants of the young princes life seemed to seep through the cracks of his body and steal away into the evening light, but not before lips were felt pressed against forehead and a heartfelt whisper caressed across his cheeks.

Maybe, just maybe these memories that drifted lazily past him in the dark weren't really memories. Dreams hopefully, of a life that a young man named Hamlet could of lead, and like the coming of the morrow they would scatter into the depths of the mind, never to show face again. Quite honestly, Hamlet didn't think he would mind that, at least it meant that he had never strayed from this pleasurable darkness that brought comfort and peace to a worn heart. It meant he could continue dreaming, it meant that he wouldn't have to purge sins he never would have committed. And yet, Hamlet couldn't rid himself of the dreading thought that Horatio wouldn't have been real. A fleeting visage, a figment of an overzealous mind. That heavy thought brought a flood of images that seemed to crush the prince under its load. A loyal, wise yet bright eyed man that was consistently attached to some book of philosophy with its hidden truths and lawful meanings. A crooked smile that brought a flame to Hamlet's heart, heating it until he was sure they both toed the line of uncomfortable with the length their stares endured. He couldn't deny the warmth that remained in his core though. He didn't want to. Those simple touches. Awkward exchanges at the beginning. Affectionate in the end. Years upon years of memories filtered till they became a rushing flow and Hamlet couldn't help but choke. Choke and splutter. Horatio was filling the furthers reaches of his soul, spilling over like the glass Horatio poured more wine into when he-

Silence.

They stopped. The floodgate closed with a snap, Hamlet shifted unconsciously. How...? He turned in the space he was held aloft in but the scenery remained constant. The only thing that seemed to produce light in this place was the prince himself, but this made no difference as his glow didn't seem to have an effect on the darkness around him.

There was a sinking feeling though, held in Hamlets gut. Sharp fear curdled his nerves (did he still have nerves? Something to ponder on at a later date). The dark seemed too dark, eerie even. Pleasure had been misplaced before Hamlet could grasp at it. His abode was changing, the once calming breeze was subdued, all that was left was a dank hollow and this made the man wearisome.

But then 'It' came.

Hamlet could hear it more than feel it. Whispers with no breath. Not like the final moment of his life, not like Horatio's murmur. It came from all around him, quiet and difficult to hear, yet constant. It replaced the breeze, the pleasantness. The dark, instead, was being occupied with a rush of a chorus of babble. Some voices complemented each other, intertwining beautifully while others were harsh, snapping, and full of resolution. Hamlet couldn't make out the language. Whether it is because the voices were speaking too low or whether he had never had perchance to hear it before, he couldn't tell. It was confusing, consuming. They were relentless and the prince had a startling feeling of being left out. Their tones suggested of conversation between each other, Hamlet remained ignored. Surprising really, for a prince one such as him, it was a foreign feeling. Not something he'd felt before. Temptation couldn't help but gnaw at him though and apparently floating here, listening, wasn't benefiting him at all.

"Hell-"

As soon as the first syllable left his lips, Hamlet knew he was in for it. The voices halted for a split second, and then with a great _whoosh_ they forced themselves over his body, diving into cracks and fissures that had formally gone unnoticed for the entirety of the prince's existence. All the whispers were now focused on himself, as though he'd opened the gate at a horse race. They ravaged him from all sides and they weren't slowing, their tones weren't getting softer either. The chorus grew and grew in pitch until they were screeching their useless babble at Hamlet. He begged, pleaded for them to cease, tried hopelessly to curl within himself but it was as if each individual voice were trying to talk to him, to steal his attention however the language was too strange, he was at their mercy.

Going out on a limb, Hamlet shouted;

"I don't understand you!" It seemed to create an effect, though whether for the better, Hamlet was yet to know. Their timbre turned thoughtful, as if they were finally realising they had made no progress in forcing Hamlet to hear them.

_You...- _A different tactic then. Hamlet hitched a breath as the simple word resonated loudly within his mind, leaving him stunned. _You..._ another voice mimicked the first as the chorus passed this new means of communication with the prince, between them.

_You...you...you...you...you...you...you...you...you...__**YOU**_... He shivered at the sheer intensity as the voices moulded into one to blast over him.

_Not done...not done...not done...not done...__**NOT DONE...**_

_Duty...duty...duty...duty...__**DUTY...**__duty..._- They were persistent now, it was working, they were getting through to the man.

_No rest...no rest... no rest...__**NOT DONE...**__honour...honour...honour...__**DUTY...**__not done...duty...no rest...duty...honour...not done...you...not done...you...duty...wake up...honour...no rest...no rest...wake up...duty...duty...honour...no rest...not done..- __**WAKE UP!**_

And that's exactly what he did.


	2. Awakening

Chances

Next chapter, so uh this is my first fan fiction, well...ever because after years reading them, I thought it wouldn't be too bad to try my hand at them (I'm possibly mistaken) and plus, the world needs more Shakespeare fan fiction, so I'm just doing my bit. I'm not going to use Elizabethan in this story, because I know I'd absolutely butcher it, so it's just plain old modern English here. Please excuse my poor writing skills as I don't really write stories, hopefully I get my point through, though.

To get you in the mood, I did put Afterlife by Avenged Sevenfold on repeat for this chapter, as I did 'The Scientist' (which always reminds me of Horatio/Hamlet) by Coldplay for the first chapter.

Disclaimer: Yeah, don't own anything, the 'verse totally belongs to Mr. Shakespeare, who I'm sure is still writing plays on his big writing desk in the sky.

Chapter Two- Awakening

The first thing that hit Hamlet was the smell.

The burn of centuries old decay was nauseating, a truly foul odour that left the prince confused as to why he could smell it in the first place. The Peaceful Dark, as far as he knew-which was a lot, considering he was there for God knows how long, produced no stink, nor was the air, subsequently 'heavy'. Hamlet pinched his nose in an effort to relieve his downtrodden sinuses, a fruitless effort; as while he could no longer smell it per se, the need for a lung full of air (and since when did he need to breathe?) caused him to taste the rot instead. This was a hell of a lot worse.

Tears sprung into closed lids as he gagged and released the pinched fingers from his nose to swipe at the air around his head, there was no getting away from this without moving, it seemed. Hamlet pushed his legs out to try and turn around but he was met with stone cold resistance, forcing his legs out again only resulted in pain erupting from his shin. Puzzled, the man gently pushed out with his hands instead; again, he was met with stone resistance- literally. The coarse texture of carved rock scrapped against his fingertips, the tiny stones creating temporary crevices in his skin as he traced the stone around him from all sides, pushing at the top corners where the slabs of stone met each other. He was trapped; in what Hamlet was sure was a torture coffin. Frantic, the prince forced his eyes open, seeking for any form of light but there was none to be found, only pitch black greeted him. He instantly knew he was no longer floating in the Peaceful Dark if not for the smell and that fact that this was not peaceful at all but the fact that when Hamlet brought a hand tentatively to his face, there was no trace of it. It did not glow but blended perfectly into the darkness. Ice cold terror clutched at his wildly thumping heart and he pressed his back onto the softness beneath him, Oh well at least someone had thought about his comfort before imprisoning him in a stone cell. As thoughtful as it was, it made no difference to the situation Hamlet had been forced into.

This was his long awaited purgatory, he was sure. The voices had kindly booted him out of the Peaceful Dark and into hellish torture. With a resigned sigh, the prince smoothed a hand down his chest and was delightfully met with cloth. Well, at least he'd still have his dignity. He'd make a companion out of the rotting stink yet though, which was still currently smothering him for all it was worth.

Minutes passed so slowly that they were thought to be hours but still Hamlet lay there in contemplative silence. The silence, he figured was again part of the torture, but it was doing a disastrous job because he found what little comfort he could in it. Not even a mouse was stirring (are there mice in purgatory? Were there even animals? He supposed there might be hounds to tear sin from flesh, which was logical) until an ungodly sound filled the space of the cell and accompanied a hollow gnawing he had not felt in an age. The grumbling gurgle startled the prince out of his internal conflict, forcing him to inspect his body. He felt...hungry, like he hadn't eaten in months.

"Oh God forbid I should go mad with hunger"

It was curious as to why he would be punished with hunger, as Hamlet never considered himself a glutton. He ate, of course, but never too much. Then again there were those midnight snack runs, but only because he'd been up late studying and never had the chance to make it to the evening feast. He made sure he exercised regularly and would even rise on the frozen winter mornings to lop around the Wittenberg campus- something which Horatio called him a madman for. So no, he didn't think he deserved these biting hunger pains at all. Naturally though, his body did not respond to his justification. Not all too surprising.

Hamlet let out a huff and shifted himself, absolutely bored. Now that he knew what he was in, it was hard not to feel claustrophobic. The air was stale, making breathing harder than usual, but the feeling of stone walls so close made the prince squirm in the cell. Calm, settle and just breathe. After all, he didn't want a panic attack to roar its ugly head and make life ('Life', what a funny thought given the situation) even more difficult. He could feel it mounting though, taking a stand and plant seeds of fear in his heart. With a lurch Hamlet pushed at the roof of the stone box in terror and frustration, throwing all his power into the muscles of his arms and with a great rumble the stone shifted skywards. For half a second, light, in all its platonic beauty shafted into the cell, splintering the darkness, until the double effort of the weight of the stone and Hamlet's own shock slammed the opening shut and darkness was victorious once again.

Hamlet heaved a breath. It was not possible, was it? But in that short span of time, he was sure that light had spilled into the cell. The need for that light rose in his core and Hamlet gathered his strength into his arms once again. This time though, he arched his back and planted his feet on the roof of the cell. His muscles coiled and ignited in a burst of raw strength to push the slab of rock upwards and in front of him. He could hear the grinding as stone kissed stone as it scrapped the walls of his box until weight was stolen from him and rock tipped over to meet ground with a great _thud_.

Pain, pure stinging pain overcame the young man as bright light seared into his retina. It was overwhelming, and for a while, Hamlet missed the dark, he could only shutter his eyes in quick succession to try and overcome the intensity that he was greeted with. Slowly, but surely, his abused eyes adjusted and he was able to see clearly for the first time. Pushing down on his loamy, silk bedding, Hamlet righted himself and was able to take a glance at his surroundings. The stink was less now, and he could see why; morning light was pouring through a metal grate in the top, right hand corner on the roof of what looked to be an old stone room. The decay must have escaped from his stone box and fled through the grate outside, though as to why the smell was there was a mystery, no doubt there was a very dead rat situated under his bedding.

Large old statues were placed in the four corners of the room with alcoves dipping in between them. Some were falling apart; one was missing its entire head while others had damp, miry green algae oozing out of carved crevices. Each one held a sceptre and shield and for the three that kept their heads, a crown.

The floor was laid with thick tiles which had become broken and discoloured with age. Small tuffs of weeds had woven their way out of the cracks to rest on the stone surface, their heads saluting the sunlight in a cheerful fashion. Two more stone crates had been built next to Hamlets own. Both were beautifully carved with intricate vines running the lengths. Script was etched into the tops, but due to the angle in which the prince sat, he could not read them. They both looked relatively new in comparison to the room in which they lay and when Hamlet dragged a hand over the sides of the box he sat in, he found that his was no different.

Perhaps tempting fate with curiosity, Hamlet felt courageous enough to clamour out of the crate and touch his unsteady shoe bound feet to the crumbling tiles. His legs, it seemed, needed time to adjust to his weight as they shook violently when the man tried to straighten, instead, forcing him to grip the sides of his box in white-knuckle ferocity. Gently shaking his weak limbs, he smiled in ecstasy when the familiar rush of blood flowed to his toes and he was allowed to stretch the aching muscles.

Stumbling closer to the closest crate to the prince's right, the smile instantly slipped off his face and his breath hitched in horror. The script that had previously been illegible formed into words that Hamlet could recognise anywhere. Afraid, he reached out and let his fingers linger near the words.

_Hamlet III_

_25th King of Demark_

_He was a Son, Brother, Father and King who was loved _

_By all and will be forever cherished_

_Rest in Peace_

Realisation slipped ice down his back, the credibility of purgatory becoming less and less by the millisecond. The box he emerged from wasn't his torture box; it was his cold, stone _coffin_. Nor was this just an ancient room, it was, in reality, a _tomb_.

Hamlet's back hit the wall before he realised he'd moved at all, sliding down until he thumped to the ground in a mess of limbs. He stared into the air, watching dust motes float by, still trying to comprehend how he was here.

"Surely, this is not holy" he whispered.

The prince whipped his head around to find something other than his father's coffin to look at, only to catch a glance at the head stone of his own _coffin_ (he shivered at the thought). The head stone sat in it's up right position that he'd pushed into when trying to emerge into the light.

It too had carved script.

_Hamlet IV_

_Beloved Prince of Denmark_

_May you be remembered for your kindness and compassion_

_Gone too soon_

_Rest in Peace_

Said prince dragged himself closer to the coffins head stone to woefully look upon the intricate symbols. He was supposed to be dead, this was not a cruel dream (a pinch gave doubt to the idea as for a second Hamlet was tempted to just slap himself instead, which probably would have been better for his nerves), yet, he was alive. Nor was he a ghost as light spilled restfully on a panted leg. Was this a demonic affliction? Hamlet didn't wish to linger on the thought.

Heaving a breath, the man gripped the stone outcropping of the adjacent alcove and pulled himself up. He couldn't stay here. The previously forgotten hunger roared in anguish and thirst started to scratch at the back of his throat. He gazed sadly at the final coffin that rested on the other side of his fathers, his mothers. Chewing on his lip, he turned away. Not yet. His heart still needed the time to find forgiveness for what she had done. Time can untie all knots, even these tightest ones of his soul.

Glancing into each alcove, Hamlet searched for the door, for surely it had not been sealed. Only the outermost door to the whole family crypt was sealed from the outside (he was sure the architects would have a right heart attack if they knew one of the dead was strolling out the front door), for one feared the disasters that would occur if the dead were disturbed, another reason this was the first time Hamlet had been in the crypt itself, let alone the burial vaults. His mother had held him back during his father's funeral as he tried to push his way in- to know where his father rested- due to her fearful superstition that he would not return once he entered.

There, one alcove, on the centre of the wall ran deeper than the rest. The door within was just a plain slab of rock with a thick handle. Testing it gently, the stone door didn't budge, so Hamlet used the length of his body to shove it, instead. The slab swung slowly outwards, grinding on the doors framework. The prince had to be persistent until there was just enough room to squeeze him out and into the crypts main area.

It was a long and narrow corridor with low marble arches echoing down the hall. There were multiple alcoves like the one Hamlet was standing in, each leading to a tomb of generations past and with some small hope, generations to come. The crypt was lit with morning light that filtered through the grates imbedded in the roof, situated in the spaces where an arch did not touch and although the place could bring forth awe to many, to Hamlet, it simply stank of death and decay.

Looking both ways, he turned and paced towards the far end of the corridor that held a marble entrance. As he crept closer, the angel statuettes on either wall peered down at him over their intertwined fingers, raised in prayer, their eyes large and glassy. The doorway held a large marble cross on its head. It had a foreboding nature, and Hamlet crossed himself to show his praise. Quickly looking down to focus on the task at hand and inspected the doors. They were not enormous in size, being a little taller than Hamlet himself, there were, however, several long stone rods running over the doors from both sides that would prevent the doors from swinging inwards, but not outwards. Looking at them closer, Hamlet could see they could be pushed back at least halfway into their slots, no longer baring the entryway. They moved smoothly when he pushed them, easily sliding back and halting when they could go no further. The doors handles were absent; so instead, the prince rested his palms to the slabs of marble. He took a few moments to gather himself, and steady his choppy breath. There was no doubt he wished himself away from the horrid place, but when his father's coffin filled his mind, he felt a small sense of longing. The memories brought a quirk of a smile to the man's lips, love gracing his heart. He might be walking away from his idols grave, but he still held steadfast at the memories, lovingly keeping them in the forefront of his mind as he began to shove the doors outward.

The freezing but fresh air filled his lungs instantaneously and Hamlet was greeted with a pure white garden of naked trees, their hands grasping at the sky in frightful fever. Snow, that had mostly likely fallen the previous night that was still in the process of melting, powdered the small leaf-less hedges that sat, ridged in the slight breeze, on either side of the entrance to the crypt.

Hamlet hauled the doors close in one great heave, the crypt belonging to only his dead ancestors once more. The cold pressed against his face like the greeting of an old friend as he stalked away from the cemetery and into the hallowed grounds that belonged to the newly established royalty of Denmark. It was slow going, the frozen air locking up the joints of the legs he had just gotten reacquainted with, his breath was stifled.

The palace was truly a sight for sore eyes

The prison that had held the grief-stricken prince, no longer seemed so. The anguish that had very nearly drove him mad, was now subdued, most of it fleeing upon his death with the accomplishment of his goals. So, it was not with a heavy heart that that drew Hamlet closer to the palace gates, but a semblance of a cheerful one. His current predicament dampening his mood somewhat.

"Hold, sir! What business have yo...-"

The guard by the entrance cut himself off in mid sentence and Hamlet was looked upon wearily until the sturdy face that regarded the young man turned as white as the snow that rested around them.

"G-Good Lord...My lord Hamlet...? Tis not possible!"

"My good sir, could you please tell me where King Fortinbras has retired to at this moment?" The pale face turned fearful and the man began to shake violently, "away, creature! I'll not listen to your foul, demonic words!"

This was not working at all, the resurrected prince tried a different tactic, "Gallant Sir, I beg you." He paced towards the stricken guard gently and tried to place a hand on the shaking shoulder. The guard's eyes were wide in fright and he quickly pulled his shoulder out of the way. The prince, frustrated and wanting answers quickly, gripped the man's face, "Sir-!"

With a _whoosh_ the nameless guard suddenly collapsed into Hamlets arms and he puffed under the new found weight.

"Damn! Alright, alright, I'll just lay you here. You're sure to be found."

Sliding the bulky figure against the wall, Hamlet roughly brushed himself off and gave a glance to the courtyard inside the gate. Royal guards were pottering round their stations and no one had apparently viewed the young man's encounter. Taking the unconscious guards broad hat ("I'll be sure to return it, good sir"), he pulled it down over his face, successfully hiding his features. He also removed the belt with a sabre that was attached to the man's hip and hastily strapped the sheathed sword to his own waist, moving into the shadows that the overhanging of the gate provided.

The prince moved stealthily along the wall, stealing into an entrance to the right. Past the door, it opened into one of the palaces many long and narrow hallways. Judging by the old paintings that had yet to be removed with the princes passing, The hallway was situated near the breakfast chamber, where the royal family would dine in silence almost every morning (save for the days he would be notoriously late due to one Ophelia).

Hamlet crept down the corridor, only to sharply pull up and hide behind a tapestry when a grumpy looking maid stalked past, the bed sheets in her grip trailing forlornly on the floor behind her. Letting out his held breath, the young man dared to take the risk and sprint down the rest of the hall, his wet shoes squealing as he slid to a stop in front of the mahogany doors of the breakfast chamber. He removed the guard's hat to run a hand through his damp hair. Standing tall, gripping the bowler firmly and ready to explain his situation to the King, Hamlet pushed at the door handles, easily swinging them outwards to enter the room and was greeted with a ghastly sight.

It seemed that Fortinbras did not share his family's tradition of eating alone.

At least ten others were sitting and delighting in the breakfast buffet, around the chambers large and round table. The cheerful chatter that filled the room died on Hamlets arrival. Time slowed as the rooms occupants stared in shock as did the prince unto them. Hamlet's eyes searched the faces for the king, but surprisingly found a welcomed other first.

Horatio.

Dear Horatio was the only one courageous enough to meet the prince's eyes. The man was extremely pale; the blood had long left his face. Oh, he was a sight though. Nothing had changed feature-wise (For Hamlet was still unsure about how much time had passed), his moustache was still proudly in place, the strong, prominent jaw was clenching and his dark blue eyes were wide.

Screams and yells erupted from the other occupants, but Hamlet and Horatio did not falter in their stare. It was only when the doors behind the prince banged against their hinges did Hamlet return to himself, shock being replaced in his system.

A weariness that Hamlet had not felt before overcame the man and his bones weighed heavy in their joints. Sounds grew muffled and the brightly lit room turned hazy, darkness creeping into the edges of his vision. This scene was familiar. But as Hamlet broke Horatio's fond gaze and abruptly collapsed onto the checkerboard tile floor, the prince knew, that this time, _this time_, he wasn't going anywhere.


	3. Of All Things Past

Chances

I grant you all a new chapter, with my love. I'm sorry it took so long; it's just that I've been bit of a busy bee. The plot shall now be set in motion!

Chapter Three- Of All Things Past

_One year ago._

The night that followed that tragic evening was a long one, for there was much to accomplish. Several coroners and a priest had been brought in to assess the bodies and what was to be done with them. It was decided that prince Hamlet's funeral would be a major national event while his mothers and Laertes, less so. The tyrant king, Claudius would be regarded as a criminal and therefore be given a grave fit for a murderer, the body cast into a pit. Discussions had carried on long into the dark hours and Horatio had not slept that night, even when he was forced from Fortinbras' furbished study and ordered to rest. He was plagued with visions that his mind would not relent, the day's events churning in his brain. His prince's unseeing eyes staring through him, the keen, playful light that had always been there even in his deepest of depressions had been stolen and Horatio feared that a large part of himself had followed Hamlet to the grave. He'd been so tempted to break his promise, but loyalty pleaded him not to.

Instead, he lay there, unable to do anything other than push his thoughts around the edges of a chasm that Hamlet had left in his chest. The scholar clutched the sheets as a sob lodged itself in his throat, choking on the sorrow. Sitting up, he pushed his fingers against his closed eye lids, unable to stifle the wetness that seeped into the lashes and dampened his fingertips. A soft breeze carried from the open window, doing its best to soothe the bare skin on his chest and dry the tears that had slipped down his cheeks to pool at his chin. It did not succeed. Tomorrow he was to tell Denmark his lord's story. Tomorrow, they would know and the shame that disgraced Hamlet would be erased as well as the nation's memories of him. For Hamlet's life was but a drop in a lake, a story to be added to the archives of Denmark's history, left forgotten between war and triumph.

Horatio would not forget though, he would never forget.

000

The day of the funeral was a dark one with the cold pewter sky watching over the proceedings, like the reaper itself. Many common folk had travelled to accumulate in the wide palace courtyard, segregated in small groups to watch as soldiers, Fortinbras' men among them, carried forth prince Hamlet's body to rest it on a large silken stage that had been assembled not long before. Woman amongst the crowd were weeping for their dead prince but Horatio felt neither pity nor sympathy for them. These people only saw the material face of the prince; to them he seemed almost a god, untouchable and invincible. Horatio saw and knew the _man_ under that mask; he knew Hamlets anxieties, his fears and all his loves. He saw the man weep and rage and laugh. Throw around his playful wit on unsuspecting fellows. And through his trying trials of grief, how it almost destroyed him with the depth of his love and devotion to his father and for justice. To Horatio, Hamlet was the very essence of life. So, when people like these before him wept for a prince they knew not, Horatio felt nothing. Just emptiness, his own tears had long since dried from that night and he did not wish to disgrace Hamlets memory with more of these useless tears. Horatio did not cry. People depended on his strength and he, himself did also. The feeling of earth crumbling from under your feet was not pleasant, and Horatio needed to grip and steel his emotions so this fracture could not happen again.

Fortinbras strode down the marble steps of the vast palace to greet the gathered citizens. He had long since removed any semblance of soldier attire and was dressed in fine navy velvet that filled his impending stature, making him look every part a newly appointed Danish king. He was a handsome man, Horatio could not deny that, with his pallid Polack skin and dark curling locks. He had strong features, sharp in some while soft in others and according to the immodest gossiping maids; he was quite the Casanova in his homeland. Woman would be begging at his feet for the perchance of marriage and Horatio was not as ignorant as to why. He greeted the crowd with striking timbre. The man was sombre in his speech, asking the gathered people of the nation to forgive this family, to not let their mistakes and misgivings make a stain on Denmark's history. It was short, but soft-spoken and the people hung onto every word like it was divine truth, but honestly; Fortinbras knew nothing and when the king gestured for Horatio to step forth and introduced the scholar to the crowd, Horatio knew this would make or break Denmark's perception of prince Hamlet.

The scholar kept his eyes strictly on Fortinbras' figure, not once did they stray towards the stage, for he feared his resolve would crumble and he'd fail his nation. They needed this. _He_ needed this. Horatio addressed the gathered with a rod-straight back, his hands clamped together in front of him. The people stared back at him with a curious air, not sure whether they should take him as seriously as the king did.

"Gr-" He cleared his throat, "Greetings great people of Denmark. I come to you with a story, a story of true events that I hope within my heart of hearts that you will believe. Hear me Denmark, for I will speak of a great tragedy that will cause you to mourn this great family as I do, to hold the sorrow of their passing from this world as close to your soul _just_ as I do...Please hear me.

"There once lived a great king, who was adored by the people and he loved them much the same back. He was an ambitious man, not afraid to leave his homeland to fight glorious battles in foreign countries and come home with absolute pride in his men, even if they did not succeed. Such was his very nature. This great king, known as 'Hamlet' to the world was known as brother, husband and father to his precious family, who he cared most sincerely. They were tight as a crones knitting, so interwoven with each other, it would take a great deal to part them. It was, however, possible. Cut one string of twine and the piece shall loosen, pull strongly enough and the whole piece can become tatters. This was what happened to the great royal family."

No one spoke, not even a strain of breath in the frozen, winter air could be heard. The wind too, seemed to be hushed, listening to Horatio's fable as intensely as the simple mortals gathered in the solemn courtyard. It was eerily quiet, until once again Horatio's voice penetrated the vast silence.

"This great king was murdered! As he was quietly dozing in his courtyard, a jealous brother came to pour a vile pestilence into his ears, one that would ensure a swift journey to the afterlife. Murdered he was, not even given time to confess his greatest of sins, damned by envy to torturous purgatory! This brother, know as Claudius, feigned innocence and took the crown for his own and poisoned the royal palace with incest. But take heed, people of Denmark; the murdered King Hamlet returned to the plane of the living for his revenge, stalking the courtyard, you now stand in, in the darkest time of night, just waiting for someone to listen. Prince Hamlet, is loyal son, was the only one to grant an audience with the deceased king, the only one available to take his father's revenge into his own hands.

"This...however, tore people's perception of our young prince. Most called him mad, spewing conspiracies against a king that seemed so innocent, showing so much grief over his brother's death. Nay, it was prince Hamlet that suffered the most. Pulled between duty, loyalty, grief and love. Love for his family, his people. He may not have acted in the most logical way, but remember this; He was but a man. He had flesh and bones. He cried, laughed and was a prisoner of grief, the same as all of us. Prince Hamlet acted in the only way he knew how at the time. He did unjustly murder a man in his rage and that was a mistake he carried with him to the grave.

"Hamlets mayhem subsequently caused trouble for the tyrant Claudius, who sent him to England under the guise of being an ambassador for Denmark. Claudius had instead sent a request to the King of England to kill the prince, which prince Hamlet recovered and returned to Denmark in a just rage. Laertes, angry over his father's murder, conspired with Claudius to kill Hamlet in a fencing match, which in turn lead to the tragedy that you see here now today."

The moment Horatio's throat closed, the crowd gathered started in an uproar. Many contributed their false wails of sorrow, while others lashed out their questions to Horatio, demanding answers in foul timbre. Fortinbras' soldiers maintained a pseudo sense of order, forcefully pushing back the crowing citizens.

Horatio emotionlessly paced backwards from his previous spot, turning to merge into the length of soldiers that stood solemnly by the prince's coffin and stalked towards the palace. His brain vaguely recognised the new King's voice call for order, but Horatio's mind was long gone.

Horatio did not glance to Hamlet as he passed.

000

After the funeral, Horatio swiftly returned to Wittenberg. He did not, however, return to his studies, instead taking up residence in Wittenberg's vast library, caring for the books he adored. The ex-scholar was desperate for some sense of peace or even a little happiness. Horatio knew this was merely a futile attempt as it was simply too early in the grieving process. He was no stranger to grief, for death had claimed many of his loved ones, but only two of them had hurt the most.

The man was also not a stranger to the librarian of the university. The stout, grey haired man had welcomed Horatio with open arms, happily remarking to Horatio that "there was always room for another librarian". Unable to stay in the student dorms, Horatio moved his pitiful amount of belongings into the old man's small, but comfortable cottage that rested on the edge of campus. 'Old man Charles' Flower Pot' as it was titled by the students, which it was considered rightly so, due to the ridiculous amount of flowers that littered garden and porch of the snug house. Much to Old Charles' dismay, it was also the place to get free flowers, for the boys to give to the young girls in the town that was placed a few minutes away from the university. Any young man caught picking the flowers, however, was promptly chased away by a small broom-wielding librarian. Charles kept his well-used broom beside the front door, for less-than-rare occasions, such as these.

The weeks that followed were slow and tedious. Horatio had taken to the books so well, that Charles became suspicious. Being an avid booklover himself, he could understand the boy's enthusiasm, but the manner in which Horatio acted was beginning to worry him. Often the young librarian would chatter away happily only to pause mid-sentence and silently walk away clutching an object in his hands tightly. Other times would find the boy accidently slamming a book cover closed, only to treat the script gently afterward, as if to apologize. Now Charles knew himself to be an oblivious and socially-awkward man at times, but even he could see Horatio's not so subtle depression. It was like a bloody rain cloud, for God's sake! Even the flowers that lined the window sills (when asked by the head of the university why the hell were there flowers in the library, Charles simply replied that they added character) drooped in Horatio's presence. Having enough (rightly so), the old librarian decided to corner Horatio one evening after supper;

"Boy, you need to stop this." Confused, Horatio raised his eyes from the text he been previously mesmerised by.

"Pardon me?"

"No, I won't. Ever since you came back from Denmark, you've been a right mess and you need to stop, even the bloody flowers are sad and they're the epiphany of happiness."

The young man set his jaw and looked into the old man's pale green eyes, "I'm fine; it was just a bit taxing"

"Taxing is putting it lightly" Charles shifted in the old, hard backed chair to get a better look at Horatio. He sighed and looked thoughtful for a moment,

"It's about Prince Hamlet, isn't it? Yes, I've heard about what happened. You two were as close as stitching; one always was closely followed behind the other. I may be old, boy, but don't take me for a fool. You're grieving, but you're not facing the grief. It's a downward spiral, young man. Wishing it to pass will only make a hole in your heart."

Stunned, Horatio lowered his head in shame. It was the cold, stone truth. This wasn't like what happened with her, the situation was all different. Time healed that wound, but he wasn't sure it could do a quick fix on this one.

"I miss him." The words slipped out before Horatio could stop them.

"I know", Charles regarded the young man with a soft smile, the wrinkles bunching up close to his lips. Horatio shyly returned the older librarian's smile.

"His wit could be so dry, it was hilarious at times, did you know he once caused the old dorm mistress to lock out the entire dorm because he said that he was sure she was a lovely lady and he could see why the janitor would serenade her in the dark of the night and take her on romantic nights in town". The words came easier than Horatio expected and he let out a light chuckle.

"Everyone loved him. When he spoke, the entire crowd would be plunged into awe, followed by roars of laughter, but no one would see the other side of him. He wanted to be a good son, so badly. He wanted to be perfect, so people would not see the side of him that just wanted praise. He'd tell me everything, you know. His regrets, the things that make him happy, how some times, he too, was scared. People were so caught up in this image of him being invincible that he was scared he'd fail them. And then he-" Horatio, sighed and resigned to silence.

Charles, not about to let the young man wallow, tried to salvage the situation.

"Don't grieve his death." The aged man chuckled, causing Horatio to sharply gaze at Charles.

"If anything grieve for the fact that others are grieving. Instead, remember Hamlet for all the pleasant memories. Celebrate him, m'boy, for his life and the fact that he lived, is something worth celebrating. Keep that fondness for him deep in your heart, so when you finally see him again, for you certainly will; you can share it with him."

000

After that late night conversation, the months blended together. Horatio felt like he could finally breathe and was no longer laden with depression. Although his occupation as a librarian had been enjoyable previous to Charles' wisdom, it became more so. He smiled more, laughed more, for he felt that this was what Hamlet would have wanted, not that shell of a man that had been his replacement for weeks on end.

Charles was also pleased. The place seemed lively again, the flowers had even returned to saluting the sun, their petals healthy glowing in the warm light. The old librarian was no longer surprised at seeing Horatio smiling and humming a tune as he returned misplaced books back to their rightful homes.

At least it was pleasant until that damned letter arrived.

It was early morning, Charles had just opened the doors and Horatio was busy opening the shutters that hid the library's interior. Unexpectedly, a severe looking man, in a soldier's uniform had marched up to the counter at the entrance of the library, tipping books off a small table with a stray elbow as he passed. This had festered Charles' immediate dislike for the man as well as the stick-up-his-ass look to him.

"I'm looking for a man named Horatio. Is he present?" Charles regarded the man sourly,

"And what if I was to say no?" The soldier gazed at the old man from down his nose, his chest puffed out indignantly.

"Sir, I have something for Mr. Horatio that is of utmost importance, now if you tell me where he is-"

"I won't tell you a damn thing! You sco-"

"Charles, please!" Horatio had paced towards the two hurriedly, hearing the loud conversation and placed a hand on the old librarians shoulder to calm him. He sighed and turned to the awaiting man, instantly recognising the soldier's attire.

"I'm Horatio, and you bring news from the King of Denmark, don't you sir?" The man plastered a false smile on his face, although annoyance could still be seen in his ridged posture.

"Indeed I do sir, His Majesty King Fortinbras has asked me give you this letter and return with you to Denmark with haste" He pulled out a small manila envelope from within his coat pocket and handed it to Horatio.

Turning it over, Horatio ran a finger over Fortinbras' red wax seal, before he pulled it out of place and unfolded the letter that lay inside.

Charles did not like this at all, but he could do nothing, it was simply not his place. Gritting his teeth, he threw an accusing glare to the royal messenger as he watched Horatio's young face turn several shades, starting with green and ending with grey. When the young man turned his eyes away from the paper, they were wide and his voice held a definite shake.

Yes, Charles did not like this at all.

000

The king paced the length of the study, turning the other way when a wall was reached. Horatio said nothing, only watched him from his casual perch on the side of the mahogany desk, his mind running rampant with the crude explanation the king had given in the letter. Upon his arrival at the palace, the librarian had been rushed into the study of the awaiting Fortinbras without a moment to spare, still tired from the journey, but more pressing matters were at hand, leading to this moment in time.

The king halted his pacing suddenly, shifting towards Horatio with fingers pinching the bridge of his nose, warding off an unwanted head ache.

"Twenty. There have been twenty suicides, in the past six months here at the palace." Horatio stifled a gasp of surprise, the letter had said something about suicides, but not how many. Fortinbras continued,

"Not only that, but all of the suicides happened in the royal cemetery. There are multiple ways these people had killed themselves, but the most popular way it seems is by hanging oneself from the overhang of the royal family crypt, right under the cross above the main doors." The king slammed a fist on Horatio's perch angrily, letting words sink in.

Horatio, unable to speak for the moment, pushed the new information around in his mind before gathering his thoughts to pose a question.

"This is terrible, very much so, but... but what does this have to do with me?" Fortinbras glared at Horatio's figure, disregarding the question for a moment.

"Suspicious, we turned to the families. All of them were common folk, nothing really special about them; however they had some interesting news about the suicide victims before they did the treacherous deed. All of them, _all of them_, Horatio, had reported seeing a loved one come before them. A _deceased_ loved one. The families thought nothing of it at; first, until the victims reported how, on more than one occasion they would talk to the 'ghost', the victims then began to show signs of intense grief, lashing out at their families. They would then disappear, only to show up dead and hanging or slaughtered by their own hand at the bloody palace! The people are starting to notice, Horatio, and your story at the funeral has made the fear in the people prosper, so yes Horatio, this has a lot to do with you, because you're the only one who may know what the hell is going on!"

000

A few days later, the previously deceased prince had made a terrifying appearance in the dining hall.


	4. New Life

Chances

I haven't updated in a while. Don't kill me, I offer this chapter as compensation?

Disclaimer: I only own the characters that didn't appear in the original play.

Chapter Four- New Life

_Present_

For first two days, nobody wanted anything to do with the comatose Prince, not even Horatio. The poor souls that moved the body to the infirmary quickly relieved themselves of their duty and did not leave the palace's chapel for some hours afterwards. They were disturbed, as was everyone. Conversations were held in whispers and the natural shadows provided by dimly lit areas were avoided like a plague as if devils would snatch at those who ventured too near to the corners and under tables.

Word spread like wildfire to the other staff in the palace but it did not leave the grounds. The King did not want panic, even if his own was slowly suffocating him. A swift and severe punishment met anyone audacious enough to try.

It took more courage than Horatio thought he had, but on the third day he paced the corridor where the infirmary sat. The previously warm and brightly lit hallway was now barren, unforgiving and from the corner of his eye Horatio could of sworn he saw the shadows from an open doorway shift and creep out onto the corridors tiled floor. With a sharp turn of his head, though, proved the shadows remained in their abodes, but he could not shake the eerie chill that slid up his neck, tickling the soft hairs on his skin.

Somewhat off-put the librarian quickly grasped the door handles of his destination and fled into the large room. The infirmary was a direct contrast to the hallway that held it; fresh light filtered into the room replicating the array of patterns provided by the curtains, onto the floor. The room was empty save for a concerned looking priest who was chatting in hushed tones to a man (who Horatio assumed to be a doctor) that was softly shaking his greying head in reply.

The men overlooked a simple cot that held a very familiar body. Days earlier upon seeing Hamlet, as alive as on the eve of his death, Horatio could not help but think God was playing a cruel jest on him. The chasm in his heart, which time had started to crudely bandage was ripped anew as one would claw at a fresh scab. Memories, like blood had spilled forth and although not a physical wound, the pain was as dire.

However, when Hamlet collapsed, Horatio surprised himself by being the first one to race to the body and cradle him in his arms, a sad reminiscent to the previous occasion in which Horatio had held the Prince so. His audience had regarded the scene in fear, the women huddling themselves behind men who appeared to rather be in the ladies position than their own. The memory of the scene was only a blur to Horatio, a tangle of colours, movement and voices that didn't match up to one another.

After the ordeal, Horatio retreated to his room to stared absentmindedly at the wallpaper that decorated the elaborate dwelling, willing some sort of answer to the frightening event. It offered nothing but an unsettling silence. Disappointed, Horatio pressed his knuckles into his eyelids, trying fruitlessly to reign in his thoughts as they darted around his mind. _Why _and _how_ were the questions the man could only try and focus on.

Two days later and Horatio still did not have the answers he sort, although this was not helped by the fact he did not look for them, too afraid of what he might find.

The men standing above the recently deceased Prince flinched when the doors behind Horatio shut with a soft _click._ Upon seeing another visitor, the priest scowled at the doctor and made for the doors Horatio hastily moved away from, offering only "Just think about my reasons", to the doctor before he left the room.

The man let out a sigh and scrubbed a hand through his short hair before turning to address Horatio completely, wearily glancing at the librarians form.

"Yes? Are you another priest who is going to tell me how to do my job?"

Horatio offered a small smile, "No sir, I've just come to –ah, see my lord. My name is Horatio and I was –is a friend of the Prince."

Relief filled the man's face but he replied to Horatio with a grimace,

"Well he's not in the best shape right now, so don't expect him to be chatty" the doctor let out a small chuckle at his own joke and offered his hand to Horatio, which he quickly grasped. "My names Doctor Larsen and I've been taking care of young Hamlet here for the past few days." A quick glance at Hamlets body dredged up a fear that everyone except Larsen seemed to share.

"The fact that the Prince lives, it doesn't disturb you?"

Larsen raised an eyebrow, "Disturb me? Certainly. Do I care? That's another tale. The only thing I really care about is keeping this man alive, which has been rather arduous."

"Arduous..."

Horatio hesitated and Larsen's features softened in sympathy. "He'll be alright. Do not worry. When he came into my care the man was severely dehydrated and a bit malnourished, leaving me to wonder how he even tramped across to the palace, from the cemetery, to give everyone a heart attack. If he even came from the cemetery. I've given him some fluids and he should be fine." Larsen looked towards the door, "Now, I'm sorry, but I must go. Those priests have been harassing me all day and quite frankly I'd love to use what little quiet I have to get these reports for the King done. You will be fine by yourself?"

"No, no, I apologize for taking your time, I'll be fine. Thank you for your help." Grasping the doctor's hand once again, Horatio watched as the tired man retreated into the small office located on the far side of the infirmary, leaving Horatio alone with an unconscious prince.

Horatio turned to gaze, albeit timidly to the blanket covered body in the cot. Hamlet's features were relaxed, peaceful even, a contrast to the tormented lines that graced the face little over a year ago. Horatio let out a puff of breath and seated himself on the plain wooden chair that sat next to the bed. It may have been only a year, but it seemed like an eternity ago. Horatio frowned. If Hamlets death seemed like an eternity then her (_no, don't think of her name, it'll bring everything about her back_) death seems like..._no, don't think about it_.

Eager to chase away decades old memories, Horatio leaned forward to cup the sleeping Hamlets cheek. Smiling softly as he gently ran his thumb over the ridge of his brow, down his nose, but not daring to touch his lips.

"This...this cannot be demonic. No, if anything, this is a gift from heaven, praise God, this is a miracle."

000

It took a few days, but Hamlet awakened with a groan. To be quite honest, it felt as if the prince had a tumble with a peer and thoroughly had his hindquarters handed back to him. It wouldn't be the first time, something every time, for the sake of his pride, Hamlet made himself just as thoroughly forget.

His joints clicked as he stretched and he hummed contently when the pain eased, allowing him to blearily open his eyes. His vision was fuzzy and his senses somewhat skewered, but he could still make out a soft hand pressed to his forehead.

"My lord?"

That voice, a light rumble. It was familiar. Hamlets vision cleared and he was greeted with the pleasing sight of a viciously frowning Horatio, worried dark blue eyes searching his own and Hamlet couldn't help but quirk a smile.

" Now I know you've always been a mother hen type Horatio, but you put even the best of them to shame" He said, or he might have said, he only managed to croak out half the sentence before the rest left him as a garbled mess of sounds.

"Please, my lord. Don't speak" a hand was placed at the base of Hamlet's spine and the prince gladly used to leverage to haul himself up. A cool glass brushed against his lips and he gulped the water within down readily.

Horatio shifted on the uncomfortable chair nervously. He was not sure what exactly Hamlet remembered and a contemplative silence held them as the prince finished his drink. Horatio was taking a large risk, but he couldn't shake the feeling that demand it be said.

"My lord, I'm not sure how, but after a year of death, you've come back to us..."

After the word _death_, Hamlet's eyes hollowed and Horatio's blood curdled at his error. The glass in Hamlet's sat limply on the bed as he gazed blankly at the infirmary's ceiling. Neither spoke and time seemed to pay them no heed, until at last Hamlet cleared his throat.

"It told me I had to do my duty."

Horatio looked sharply to his lord's face. It was marred with a slight frown; the hollowness not quite left his eyes. Horatio didn't dare interrupt.

"I wasn't in Heaven, dear Horatio, nor was I in Hell. I cannot help to think that I was not even in Purgatory..."

As Horatio listened to Hamlet's tale, he could not help but feel unsettled, while he was sure the princes resurrection was an act of God (who, until recently he had agnostic feelings about), there was something sinister underneath it all. While this chorus of voices Hamlet described could be the voices of Heaven, this darkness that he was left in bought up no knowledge in Horatio's mind. He could not help but suspect that Hamlet had been _held_ in that place for a reason, and not a pleasant one. He only hoped that the voices of Heaven had been the ones to save him from that place.

000

It silently watched over the two men from the deep shadows of the infirmary. The plan, its plan had been set back on the tracks, and the thing couldn't help but feel ecstatic. _Let me go. Let me out. Why are you doing this to me?_ Voices skittered over one another, the souls they belonged to trying desperately to escape the being that meshed them together. Yes, this was only the beginning to a means it had put so much work into, so much power, only to be derailed by a tyrant king's greed. It was right again now.

It shifted in the shadows, _you tricked me, you tricked all of us_, tracing the wall so it may over look the scene playing in front of it with all the more clarity that a being of a thousand faces could give. A giddiness rose, touching all it's beings and it's voices could only tremble in their pleas. It relished in this fear that never seemed to cease, fuelling its power to new heights. The Prince lives and it will have its retribution.

Some may call this fiend a Devil, this monstrous being called itself a _God._


End file.
